


It Was Just Homework

by Acaer



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, My First AO3 Post, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-03
Updated: 2017-06-03
Packaged: 2018-11-08 08:59:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11078298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Acaer/pseuds/Acaer
Summary: Klangst. Lance is heartbroken after Keith kills himself, and he's left to mourn and cope with the aftermath. This leads to quite the masterpiece in Lance's English class.





	It Was Just Homework

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so this is my first fanfic on here, sorry if it's confusing. Keith and Lance were dating and the story's set just recently after Keith's death. The English teacher's an OC who pulls Lance aside after reading his writing assignment about Keith. Enjoy!

     When Lance entered Mrs. Whitley's room she was bent over a folder of mismatched and ragged papers: what he guessed was an assignment to be graded from her previous class. Each page held the thoughts of a different brain, scribbled in the writing of a different hand. Lance could see a cursive title scrawled on the topmost paper, but he could not read the name before it was addressed with the scribble of a pen and moved aside to the slightly lesser pile of those that had already been completed. He stood for a moment, just past the comfort of the doorway and watched the quiet setting’s steady procession. From the window there came a slight inkling of sunlight, lazy rays that stretched fingers of warmth and light towards the desk, but not with enough strength to throw the persistent dimness from the room. Everything else was cast in a blue-grey light, and there was a hush about the place that kept it calm. Peaceful, even. Only the dust could be seen traveling in the window's wake, dancing to the quiet shuffling of papers. Lance made to clear his throat, and in a second Mrs. Whitley’s head had swiveled up to abandon its task, eyes searching for the source of the sound.  
She saw him and smiled. It did little to hide the tiredness from her features, or the disheveled strands of hair hanging limply by her cheeks, but it was a smile all the same.  
"Lance, hello!"  
She welcomed him in with her gaze and he let it carry his reluctant legs forward and pull him into the plastic blue chair sitting across from her desk. He sat heavily, pulling the spindly metal legs forward over the worn carpet so that he now faced the bulk of the deep oak desk and its impenetrable covering of debris.  
He sank in his seat, waiting as Mrs. Whitley's arms appeared and made a sweep of the cluttered surface, pushing aside the folder thick with lined paper so that there would be nothing left lying between them. When at last the troublesome mess was cleared, she tipped forward with a sigh, hands coming together with restless thumbs crossed in order to rest at the center of the beaten desk.  
She looked at him, and he looked back at her. He stared with emotionless blue eyes that encouraged her to speak first. So she did.  
"How are you, Lance?"  
He muttered a subdued reply and bowed his head in a nod.  
"Fine. How are you?"  
Mrs. Whitley leaned back slightly in her chair and nodded as well, taking a deep breath.  
"I'm doing... doing all right, thank you."  
She peered at him curiously with her head tilted just ever so slightly to one side. She was calculating a question, Lance knew, formulating what she wanted to say. Lance let the silence wait calmly, for he did not have any desire to break it. He could already tell where this was going. He knew what was coming next. These days it was all too easy. He always knew what to expect, because lately it was always the same. And always in that same tone too: gentle, and worried. Too caring. Too quiet for Lance's liking, making him feel as though he was fragile, and likely to break at even the slightest pressure. But he wasn't. He wasn't fragile.  
"How did you find the funeral today?" she asked in an offhandedly plain voice.  
Funeral. It was weird to hear those words from a teacher. It was weird to hear them in general. Especially when the particular subject was actually someone who had visited this very room quite regularly. Lance just shrugged.  
His gaze shifted down to explore the pencil-scratched wooden surface before him, and there was no desire expressed to say any more than that. So she continued.  
"It was difficult... definitely, I think. But I'm glad so many students got to attend."  
Lance remained silent, nodding in agreement. A gentle breeze wandered in passively through the window and came to play lightly with a soft strand of his dark hair. Off to his right, he could hear the familiar buzzing of a distant, meandering fly. He didn't want to look up. He already knew the expression that was waiting before him so plainly that he could see it without even taking a glance. Pity. Concern. He didn't like that look. But Mrs. Whitley knew that. She knew him. So she brushed it off in favor of an easier topic: school.  
"There's something I wanted to talk to you about Lance," she said, reaching to pull yet another paper from atop yet another stack. As it came to rest between them, Lance's heart gave a little skip. He looked down at it. And then he looked up into her eyes.  
"What?" He practically whispered, throat so dry he could not form the syllables. "What did you want to talk about?"  
By now the room was no longer peaceful. His foolish heart was nothing more than a traitor, pounding too fast and leaving him with a chill that he did not like. But he wasn't scared. He didn't have to be scared. The gentle faced woman held him there with a concentrated gaze. And she smiled again. Lance saw that it was kind, devoid of pressure, but yet it was still off. It was off because, this time, it was a smile that clearly hurt.  
Lance thought he knew why. He hadn't been expecting this, but he guessed he should've figured it out before. He looked down at the paper once again. The name in the top right stared back at him. It accused him. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat because, right now, it was the only name he didn't want to see: his own.  
Mrs. Whitley leaned her head down to draw level with his. She captured his eyes once again and lifted his reluctant gaze, drawing his attention back to her. Back to the classroom. Back to the reason that he was here.  
"Your paper," she whispered. "It's really...extraordinary." She swallowed nervously. "I was...wondering... if maybe I could read it out loud?"  
Lance didn't move. He sat so rigid and tense in his chair that he felt like it was possible he might just crack. He glared at the paper. He stared at the first line and it made his eyes burn. No, it made his whole head burn. But Mrs. Whitley looked so serious, so desperately immersed. Maybe... maybe if he could just read it, then he'd get to leave again. Then it would stop burning. Then she wouldn't ask him any more questions.  
"You don't have to say yes," she assured him quickly. "It's just... this is one of the most astonishing works I've ever seen. I mean it. And clearly there's so much more written here than you're willing to talk about in person. Keith's death… it's been hard on you. It’s been hard on everyone. But you especially. I thought that reading this paper out loud, addressing your feelings, maybe...maybe it would be...beneficial." She tapered off, searching and studying his face for any sign of a reaction. Lance just blinked. A moment passed, and then two, and then three. Lance didn't want her to look at him like that. He didn't want her to be right. But part of him knew already that she was, and that part so deeply wanted nothing more than to just let go of the aching stake inside his chest. Just for a moment. Just because he didn't think he could take it in any longer.  
"I'll do it," he conceded softly.  
Mrs. Whitley's eyes widened in apparent shock, lips parting minutely in her surprise.  
"You'll what?"  
"I said, I'll read it. I..." Lance stumbled, getting no response from his teacher but silence.  
"I want to,"  
Immediately Mrs. Whitley shook her head. "You don't have to. I mean, are you sure Lance? I wouldn't want to force you if-"  
"No," he said forcefully. There was a pause, a stillness, and then he took a deep breath. "I want to."  
He looked again at the menacing, blank, white, face of the paper. His words lay there. All of them. All of them that he'd meant with every bit of his heart and soul. And suddenly he was worried that they would sound stupid. Stupid. This whole thing was stupid. So without giving it another second's thought, he grabbed the paper in an unwilling, shaking hand that he wished right then more than anything in world wasn't his own, and began to read:  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
_“Do you know what the problem is, with falling for that beaten down boy who can never seem to live without those god awful bags under his eyes?_  
_It's that he smiles when he kisses you._  
_He fools you._  
_He lights up so brightly under your hands that you don't imagine for a single second that his world isn't always like that._  
_But the truth is it isn't._  
_It's something twisted and grotesque._  
_It's something he never wanted to show to anyone._  
_That's why he always painted it in rainbows for you, did it up in nice little ribbons until it looked almost pretty._  
_And the worst part is, you believed him._  
_He showed you that ugly thing that was his world with its fragile cover tied on so tight, so tight that you just couldn't pry it off._  
_Even when you tried. Even when you strained so hard you thought you'd break from trying._  
_And after that came the day that you just stopped trying altogether. You probably don't even remember why._  
_But you did._  
_And you just trusted that whatever he had under there, simply wasn't for you to see anyway._  
_And truthfully, maybe some of it wasn't._  
_Maybe that's why he carried it all on his shoulders just to save your brittle ones from cracking._  
_He was too brave._  
_And in the end you were a fool just the same._  
_You were a fool for believing him and his gift wrapped little box._  
_Because whether you like it or not, that boy lied to you._

_Not in his devotion. Not in his “I love you”s either. Never in the kisses, or promises, or days that he gave you. It was actually much simpler than that. His biggest lie did not regard you. Yet somehow, in the end, it would rip your heart out the most. Because his biggest lie? His biggest lie was "I'm fine."_  
_Everyday from your favorite lips, those same, two, simple words._  
_But the truth is he wasn't fine._  
_Not in any sense of the word._  
_He wanted to scream._  
_He wanted to scream so loud that the entire world would hear him._  
_Most of all you would hear him._  
_But the tragedy, is that he didn't._  
_You see, he just couldn't get it out._  
_He couldn't._

_And you know that you should have seen it regardless. You should have seen it already forming on his lips._  
_Because after all, you knew him._  
_Better than anyone did. Better than anyone ever will._  
_And maybe if you'd just payed close enough attention, then it wouldn't even have mattered if he never made a sound._  
_You'd have saved him anyway._  
_But you didn't._  
_You didn't because he tricked you._  
_Because he said that he was "fine."_  
_And you didn't know that he wasn't until that night. You didn't know until he took that knife out and sat alone in his kitchen._  
_In the dark._  
_Until he lay the proof on each damned wrist._  
_And no one came for him._  
_And no one knew._  
_And his tears could not wash away enough to keep him._  
_They only cleaned his cheeks._  
_They only left glittering tracks down his face so that he looked pretty when they found him._  
_He always looked pretty. On the outside and the inside._  
_Like an angel whose wings were too broken to carry him anywhere._  
_It was two hours before they found your angel._  
_And when they did, when they did you knew._  
_You knew that it was over, you knew that he was gone, you knew that you'd never feel that fluttering heartbeat under your fingers again._  
_But most of all, you finally knew that he wasn't._  
_He wasn't fine._  
_Goddammit he wasn't fine, and now the world was burning._  
_But what could you do?_  
_What could you say now that he wouldn't hear you?_  
_The answer, my friend, is nothing._  
_It's all a big fat nothing._  
_The letter that he left you, saying he was sorry?_  
_Nothing._  
_The passenger seat in your car?_  
_Nothing_  
_Every piece of shit left in this world that's just useless without him in it?_  
_Nothing._  
_It's all nothing._  
_Because that's just what happens, when you're stupid enough to let this place destroy the one and only boy who was everything._  
_And now I know._  
_So, I guess there's just one more thing to ask._  
_And I hope to god he hears me._

_Keith Kogane, angel...would you like to start over?”_  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
There are tears on the desk, and there are tears on his paper. And Lance knows now that no matter what he thought before, his angel's not going to hear him.

**Author's Note:**

> Tell me what you think please!!


End file.
